‘Exactly. I’ll start researching the case immediately. Where are you now?’
Banks explained.
‘Will you keep me informed?’ Annie said.
‘I will. And you me. Thanks a lot, Annie.’
‘No problem.’
‘One more thing. Don’t forget that one of the calls we think the Garskill Farm victim made from the telephone box in Ingleby was to an Estonian number. You might check if anyone’s run it down yet. Or do it yourself. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Will do.’
Banks put his phone back in his jacket pocket and made his way towards the pub, which rather resembled a rambling old house, with a red pantile roof, a whitewashed facade and a small area of picnic benches in a stone-flagged yard out front, separated from the pavement by a strip of grass and a low wall. Banks made his way past the empty tables to the door and entered the cavern-like space. The ceiling was high, and the room seemed to swallow up the little groups of tables, even the bar itself, though it was long, and the tiers of bottles reflected in the mirror gave the illusion of depth. The place had clearly seen better days, but there was a certain warm welcome in the shabby velveteen, brass fixtures and framed watercolours of old Leeds scenes on the walls. It smelled of domestic cleaning fluid, but all the Domestos in the world couldn’t get rid of the years of stale smoke. A few slot machines flashed and beeped here and there by a nicotine-stained pillar, but no one was playing them. Peter and Gordon were singing ‘A World Without Love’ on the jukebox. It was lunchtime, and there were a few family groups picking away at baskets of chicken and chips or bowls of lasagna, and the usual ensemble of regulars stood at the far end of the bar chatting up a buxom blonde barmaid. She looked like a retired stripper, Banks thought. Or perhaps not even retired yet. He walked over to the barman, who was studiously polishing a glass.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ the barman asked.
‘I’d like to see Mr Corrigan.’
The man’s expression changed abruptly from welcoming to hostile. ‘And who may I say is asking for him?’
Banks showed his warrant card.
‘Just a moment, sir.’
The barman disappeared. The blonde pulling pints at the far end of the bar glanced over and cocked her hip. A few moments later, the barman reappeared, and a giant materialised beside Banks.
‘Curly here will take you to him,’ said the barman, then he turned away. Curly was as bald as one of the balls on the snooker table at the far end of the room, and about as unsmiling. Banks followed him through a maze of small lounges, past another bar, through doors and down corridors by the Gents and Ladies toilets towards the back of the pub, until they came to a small private function room, perfect for the office lunch. Curly gestured for Banks to enter, and he did. The decor was much the same as the rest of the pub, with plenty of brass and velvet in plush dark shades, with heavy varnished tables, ornate iron legs. Banks had expected an entourage, but one man sat alone at a table, a few papers spread in front of him. He gathered them up and put them in a folder, then smiled and stood up when Banks came in. Banks was surprised at how slight and skinny he was. He had a sort of ferret face, thinning ginger hair, no eyebrows and a high forehead. Banks put his age at about forty. He was casually dressed, wearing a navy sports jacket over his shirt. No tie. He extended his hand in greeting. Banks thought it churlish to refuse, so he shook.
‘I know Kelly at the bar checked your ID, but you don’t mind if I have a butcher’s, myself, do you? One can’t be too careful.’
‘Not at all,’ said Banks, showing his warrant card.
Corrigan examined it. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Banks,’ he read slowly. ‘Impressive. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr Banks. I’ve heard so much about you. Sit down, sit down. You’re a long way from home. What brings you to these parts? But please excuse my manners. Can I offer you a drink?’
‘I wouldn’t mind a coffee,’ said Banks.
‘Coffee, it is.’ He called Curly in. ‘Get Mr Banks a coffee, Curly. How do you take it?’
‘Black, no sugar,’ said Banks.
‘You might think this set-up a bit odd,’ said Corrigan, gesturing around the room when Curly had gone for the coffee, ‘but I find it far more congenial than some soulless office in a building full of soulless offices. This place has history, atmosphere. And I’m comfortable here. Don’t you think it’s comfortable?’
‘Very,’ said Banks.
‘Of course, I travel quite a lot, too, but when I’m in town, I find it most pleasant to work here. It’s also useful for entertaining, too, of course. The chef can put together a decent menu when the occasion demands it, and there’s never any shortage of drink. Plus, I find it’s a good way to stay in touch with the neighbourhood. It’s a part of the community.’
‘You’ve sold me on it,’ said Banks. ‘I’ll ask my boss if I can relocate to the Queen’s Arms as soon as I get back to Eastvale.’
Corrigan laughed, showing rather long, yellowish teeth. The coffee arrived. Corrigan didn’t have anything except the bottle of sparkling water already in front of him. ‘It’s a lovely part of the country you come from, the Yorkshire Dales,’ he said. ‘You should be proud of its heritage. I’d live there like a shot if I was in a position to retire. Do you know Gratly?’
‘I do.’
‘One of my favourite spots. The view from the bridge, the old sawmill. Picnic by the falls on Gratly Beck on a warm summer’s day. I like nothing better than to take the wife and kids there for a day out when I can manage it.’ He paused. ‘Still, I don’t suppose you’ve come here to talk about the beauties of the Yorkshire Dales, have you?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Banks. He knew that Corrigan was trying to rile him, or scare him off, by showing that he knew where Banks lived, which he had no doubt checked up on after Bill Quinn’s murder, but he was damned if he was going to rise to the bait. ‘It’s about DI Quinn. Bill Quinn.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Corrigan scratched the side of his nose. ‘Poor Bill. Tragic. Tragic. I understand it happened in your neck of the woods. I should imagine that’s why you’re investigating the case and not the locals here?’
‘Got it in one,’ said Banks. ‘But I shouldn’t worry too much. DI Quinn might be dead, but he’ll be replaced so quickly you won’t even notice it’s happened. I understand he was causing you a few problems?’
‘Problems? Bill? Not at all. I enjoyed our conversations, though I must say he was a rather dour man. It was hard to get a laugh out of him. Still, an intelligent man. Well informed. Well rounded, too. I like a man who has an interest in outdoor pursuits like fishing and gardening, don’t you, Mr Banks? I think it adds character, dimension.’
‘Frankly,’ said Banks, ‘I couldn’t give a toss. What I’d like to know is where you were last Wednesday evening between about eleven and one in the morning.’
‘Me? I’m assuming this is to do with Bill’s death, but I’m surprised you’re asking where I was. Surely if I had anything to do with what happened — and I assure you, I did not — then I’d hardly do it myself, would I? Do I look like an assassin?’
‘Assassins come in all shapes and sizes,’ said Banks. ‘And it’s murder. Not just death. Bill Quinn was murdered. I think we’d be best calling a spade a spade.’
‘As you will. Plain speaking. I’m all for that.’
‘What kind of car do you drive?’
‘A Beemer. Some think it’s a bit flash for these parts, but I like the way it handles.’
‘So where were you?’
‘At home, I should think. Certainly nowhere near St Peter’s.’